“Yeah, you would be hanging out at a biker bar. Slut.” He pretends to spit. It’s one those mannerisms he picked up from mafia movies. I met his folks; they’re middle class people from Long Island.
Oh, brain, focus. What if Lou comes home? I have to get Carlo out of here now.
“I can take you to it.”
“Yeah.” He gestures with his gun to the door. “You try anything, when we’re done, I’m coming back here and putting one in little brother’s head and one in his chest. Capisce?” He taps the barrel once against my temple and once between my breasts.
I raise my hands higher, nodding. “Can I move?”
“Yes, you can fucking move.” He sweeps his gun toward the door. “After you.”
I slowly get off the bed and walk to the front door. Carlo follows, the gun jammed between my shoulder blades.
My breath comes shallow, and waves of nausea and dizziness keep rising, making my steps wobbly. I’m going to trip by accident, and he’s going to shoot me. I walk so deliberately, he digs the gun harder into my back.
“Speed up.”
Now that I’m actually paying attention to my surroundings, I see that the place is trashed. The coffee table is overturned, and the couch and chairs have been slit open, upholstery ripped from the foam cushions. The TV is face down on the floor. Lou is going to be so pissed.
I should never have come here. I didn’t think I’d be putting him in danger. Like always. I didn’t think.
Carlo nudges me out the front door.
“Go right.” Oh Lord. The moon’s still shining bright. How did I not notice his car is parked on the side of the road, a few yards from the house?
I missed it.
This time, I really am going to die from my own stupidity.
The car chirps, and Carlo opens the back door. “You drive. You try anything, I shoot. I need that bag. I’ve got nothing to lose.”
What is up with that bag?
“I took everything out. I left it at your place.”
“Get into the fucking car and drive Nevaeh. Or we can wait for little brother to come home.”
I slide into the seat, wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts. It’s cool, no more than sixty degrees, but I’m flushed and clammy.
“Drive!” Carlo sits behind me and leans forward to prop the gun next to the headrest.
“I don’t have the keys!”
“Shit.” He fumbles around and then drops them in my lap. “You try anything, the last thing you see is gonna be your brains flying out of your head.”
That makes no sense. I put the car in drive. It’s a Beamer, an automatic. I’ve actually never driven Carlo’s car before. He did all the macho things—always drove, ordered my drinks, helped me on with my coat. I thought it was quaint. But that’s how you treat a doll, isn’t it? Someone who’s not quite a person. Schlep her around, feed her, dress her.
This epiphany is coming a year too late.
“Faster,” he barks in my ear.
I’m doing the speed limit. I press down on the gas as gently as I can.
I don’t know what to do. When Carlo gets the bag, I’m done. Obviously, there’s something in there I didn’t see. Maybe a false bottom like in a spy movie?
I could just drive to the police station like they say to do if you’re being followed. Is he crazy enough to shoot me in front of a police station? He’d never get his bag then.
But what if he just ran when he saw where I was going? And went after Lou? Carlo’s alone, but what if he has people with him, and I didn’t notice them? I didn’t see his car. Or him. Or the trashed house.
I was so hyper-focused on my drama. I hate my brain.
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” Carlo snarls, his breath hot in my ear. “Be a good girl. All I want is the bag. I get it; I leave.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Immunity.” He laughs, bitter with an edge of hysteria.
Oh, shit. He’s flipping on the Renellis. Whatever is in that bag, it’s his ticket out. And he wouldn’t be talking if he had any intention of letting me live.
My brain’s a buzzing, jumbled mess, and I try to sort it, make it flow in a direction, but Carlo’s breath smells like spearmint, and there’s a faint rattling sound coming from underneath the car, and it’s worse when we come to a stop, and it wasn’t there the last time I was with Carlo, the night he choked me in his apartment. I bet he ran over something wrong, and why do I care?
I need a plan, but the car keeps rattling. He’s leaned back in his seat, but I know the gun is still aimed at my back.
Tears gather in the corner of my eyes. I don’t want to die now. Forty needs me. He probably doesn’t know it, but he does. He needs to take care of me, and he needs me to love bomb him until all the stiffness in his body and the rigidity in his soul melts, and he laughs as if he’s surprised. Every time. He laughs like he’s surprised.
I make him happy. Too serious, uptight Forty Nowicki. I make him happy. And he makes me happy. I’m going to survive this.
I don’t know what I’m going to do, but my brain’s whirling and glitching as my body drives itself down Route 12 until I’m turning in to the clubhouse. It’s getting close to five in the morning. It’s still dark, but it’s a thinner dark. You can see yards away, but the world is gray.
There’s still the dull thud of bass coming from the clubhouse, but there’s only a few cars and a half-dozen bikes. I don’t know how many brothers are bunking here now, or how many might still be awake. If it’s like it used to be, anyone still up will be three sheets to the wind.
“I don’t see your car.”
“It’s in the garage.”
“Why is your car in the garage?”
“It got keyed.”
He snorts. “Of course, it did.”
Carlo gets out of the car and opens my door, slipping his gun into his jacket pocket. “Go. Walk in front of me. If we run into anyone, we’re just picking up your car. You scream, you do anything, you’re dead, and so is anyone who wants to play hero.”
“You don’t have to do this. You can just leave. I can get you money. Fifty thousand dollars.” Shit maybe there’s a Ford Focus around here somewhere with a check still in the glovebox.
Desperation is seizing my chest. I’m babbling nonsense. When he realizes my car’s not here, he’s going to kill me.
He’s going to shoot me, and people will come running, and he’ll kill them, and it’ll be my fault. Oh God. I search the lot for a trike. Shirlene cannot be here.
I’m scanning, panic rising, when I see it. My red Hyundai backed into a spot in front of the garages. The hood is buffed and painted. It’s a freakin’ miracle.
Carlo sees it at the same time I do.
“Go.” He shoves me forward, and I stumble, tripping on loose pebbles.
I have no plan. I walk as slowly as I can toward my car. My brain whirls and clicks and churns out nothing. Just stupid, random thoughts.
Where is my necklace? It was in my hand when Carlo knocked me into the bed frame.
Big George did a good job on the hood. I had some fender damage from accidentally bumping into a retaining wall, and he fixed that, too.
This early, you can smell dew in the air, and you can almost feel it, too, on your skin.